


By Blood or Marriage

by intravenusann



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Forced Marriage, M/M, Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Matter of Life and Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-19 08:41:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11309811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/intravenusann/pseuds/intravenusann
Summary: When the Obscurial Credence Barebone is captured months after his supposed death, Percival Graves makes an impulsive choice to spare him from a second execution — by marrying him.





	By Blood or Marriage

“This is ridiculous,” Percival Graves says. 

He stands about four inches away from Seraphina, leaning heavily on a cane. He studies her face and sees the red vessels in her eyes, the tense muscle in her jaw.

“You know this is ridiculous, Madame Picquery,” he says. 

“Mister Graves,” she says. “The man killed three No-Majs. He destroyed half of Lower Manhattan. He has already escaped execution once and eluded authorities for the past six months.”

“Madame President,” Tina Goldstein says from behind him. “You have to understand —”

“There is nothing to be understood,” Seraphina says. “The law is the law. My hands are tied.”

“They weren’t for me,” Percival says.

She narrows her eyes at him. “There were certain extenuating circumstances in your case, Mister Graves. We could hardly hold you responsible for Grindelwald’s actions.”

“But Madame President,” Goldstein tries again.

“Goldstein,” recently promoted Director of Security Kinney says. Her voice is a warning that Goldstein smartly heeds.

“I believe, what Miss Goldstein would like to point out to you, madame,” Percival begins, “is that this man here faced the same extenuating circumstances.”

“You didn’t kill anyone, Percival,” Seraphina says. 

He looks her in the eye and thinks of how he could have, with everything Grindelwald did to him. It’s hardly fair that the mercy extended to him shouldn’t be extended to this man. 

Percival steps back, giving Seraphina room to breathe. He looks at the man in chains at the edge of the room. A team of six aurors frames him, their wands at the ready. But he hardly looks like that much of a threat, with long and dirty hair and ill-fitting clothes. If he stood up straight, he might be tall. Percival would never recognize him as the New Salem boy, but he doubts he would have recognized the boy in a crowd anyway. 

The most threatening thing about the man is how he stares out flatly at everyone. His hair hangs in his face, but it cannot hide the hateful look in his eye.

“My own amnesty could be extended,” Percival says.

“A special dispensation can only be shared by two people accused in the same case if they are related by blood,” Seraphina says. “You know that, Mister Graves.”

“I do, Madame President,” he says. “Only by blood or marriage.”

He looks at the young man and the anger within his very, very still frame feels like a mirror of Percival’s heart. He sees the mark of a common enemy burned into those dark eyes.

“So I’ll marry him,” Percival says.

“What?” Seraphina says.

“What?!” Goldstein says, even louder.

“The law is the law,” he says, mimicking the president’s words. “And it says nothing about when the two need to be wed. Someone should probably petition for an amendment of that, actually, but I imagine by that time I’ll already be a married man.”

“Credence hasn’t agreed to that,” Goldstein says. “You can’t just do this kind of thing.”

“Have you gone completely mad, Percival?” Picquery asks.

Percival shrugs his shoulders and leans on his cane to turn. He crosses the room toward the man.

“Marriage to an Obscurial would be a clear violation of —” Director Kinney starts.

All Percival has to do to make her be silent is look at her.

“What do you say?” he asks, standing a few feet away from Credence Barebone, Obscurial and killer.

“What will happen if I refuse?” the man asks Percival.

Their eyes meet and, while his gaze is still heavy with hatred, Percival recognizes the glassy look of a frightened animal.

“I imagine that you’ll be executed,” he says. “Again.”

“You seem like the better option,” the man says, his voice flat and rasping.

“Thank you,” Percival says. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

The corner of the man’s mouth twitches for just a moment in what Percival could almost think was a smile.

He leans on his cane in order to turn back toward Picquery and the rest.

“Well,” he says, “there you have it. Credence Barebone and I are to be wed and my amnesty will be extended to him.”

“You are being ridiculous, Percival,” Seraphina says. She looks prepared to raise her wand and jinx him across the room. He clutches his cane and braces his feet.

“I am being completely serious,” he says. “I’ll wear my own mother’s lace if I have to.”

“I could officiate the ceremony,” Seraphina says, after she’s put Credence back in a cell with armed guards. 

“And?” Percival asks. 

“Well,” she begins. “There are certain ways to enchant objects — a ring, perhaps — which limit the wearer’s magic. Something which would prevent him from using his magic against you or any of us.”

Percival looks at her. He knows the kind of magic she’s speaking about. It has an ugly history: It was last legally used on a wizard who was found guilty of using magic in assistance of a No-Maj revolt in Louisiana in 1811.

It seems to be an endorsement of how serious Seraphina finds this problem that she would even suggest it.

“Absolutely not,” Percival says. 

“I’ll suggest it to him myself, then,” she says.

Percival goes forth to try to find someone to do the damn paperwork and, despite a great force of will, fails. 

“I couldn’t possibly,” the girl in the record’s office says.

“The boy isn’t in our files,” her supervisor says.

“The Obscurial will agree to an enchanted ring,” Seraphina says.

“Well, I won’t,” he tells her, and tries again to find someone in the Department of Vital and Non-vital Records who will sign off on a marriage license.

His failures only serve to darken Percival’s mood. A paper mouse scampers through the halls of the Woolworth Building seeking his attention with soft squeaks, but he has been ignoring it. Finally, in a fit of pique, he crushes it under the toe of his shoe. 

When he reads it, though, he feels quite guilty.

“A formal request is made for rights of visitation between Credence Barebone (Prisoner 11487-e) and Percival Graves, pursuant of a recognized engagement to be legally married.”

He goes directly to the building’s basement. Where the dungeons had once held Gellert Grindelwald, alive and awaiting a return to the clearly incompetent hands of European authorities, there now sits a man with too long hair and an unshaved face. He doesn’t even look up when Percival approaches his guards.

“You wanted to see me?” he says.

“Yes, sir,” Credence says.

“Why?” Percival asks.

“I wondered how soon I could expect to be freed now that I have agreed to your president’s terms,” Credence says. “She wouldn’t say.”

“The president’s terms?” Percival repeats.

“The ring,” Credence says.

“What did she tell you about the ring?” Percival asks. He will not allow himself to react without knowing how deeply Seraphina has misled this man. He holds tight to the handle of his cane and restrains himself so strictly that his teeth ache from the clench of his jaw.

“She said it would keep me from changing my form or fleeing,” Credence says. “It would prevent me from harming or disobeying you. I think she does not trust me to be bound by wedding vows alone.”

Apparently, Seraphina was candidly honest with the man and he still…

“And you agreed to this?” Percival asks.

“Yes,” Credence says, offering no more of an explanation.

“I am trying to get you out of jail,” Percival says, “not trying to become your jailer myself.”

Hidden beneath the fall of his dirty hair, Credence’s eyes look just slightly wider. Percival doesn’t know what to make of that.

“I won’t accept the ring,” Percival says. “There has to be some other way.”

Credence says nothing to this.

Percival cannot say why he has chosen this, of all things, as his sword to fall upon. It is an impulse that he cannot let go. He has read the reports again and again, but there were never answers. Credence Barebone went from the beaten son of the woman Tina Goldstein attacked earlier that winter to a dark force ravaging Manhattan and no one knew exactly what happened.

No, that's not true. Gellert Grindelwald knows what happened. 

Percival enjoys, still, rereading Goldstein’s debriefing where she describes the fury of the Obscurus coming down upon Grindelwald while he wore Percival’s face.

Perhaps it's a matter of his own imprisonment.

Perhaps Percival has discovered a new depth for sympathy within his heart.

Or perhaps he simply wants revenge. Perhaps he only wants an ally.

Outside the entrance to the dungeons, Percival nearly plows through Goldstein while he's lost in thoughts of raining horror and suffering down upon the head of his enemy.

“Excuse me, sir,” Goldstein says.

“I apologize, Miss Goldstein,” he says.

He watches her bite her lip and not quite meet his eyes.

“Is there something you wish to say, Goldstein?”

“I'm sorry, sir, but what are you doing here?” she asks.

“I was speaking with,” Percival pauses.

“My fiancé.”

“Oh!” Goldstein says. “I was just going to see Credence myself. Sir, are you… I mean…”

“Has he told you about the ring?” Percival asks.

“Yes,” Goldstein says. “I just…”

“It wasn't my idea,” Percival says. “And I refuse to accept it, but I believe there are powers above me who want to force this marriage onto their terms.”

“What?” Goldstein asks.

He respects what Seraphina is trying to do, even if he won’t agree to it. She wants to reduce risk and danger to everyone and once upon a time Percival would have the first to say Credence should be executed. But that was then, and Percival came out of captivity with more than a lame right leg.

“I can't seem to procure the paperwork for the marriage,” Percival says. 

“You know,” Goldstein says. “I think my sister knows someone who works in Records.”

As it turns out, Queenie Goldstein knows a young man in the office of Vital and Non-Vital Records who just so happens to be engaged himself. At first, he is reluctant to even get out the application for a marriage license.

Queenie delicately sets her hand on his desk and leans forward, batting her eyelashes.

“It would really be a shame if anybody told Isadora about who you went home with after last year’s Solstice Ball,” she says.

The man hands Percival an application, which he fills out as best he can with Tina Goldstein’s assistance.

“I think he’s twenty-three now,” she offers. 

“Merlin’s beard,” Percival says. “I’m a cradle-robber.”

“Well,” Tina says.

At the end, the young man signs off at the bottom of the application.

“You should be getting the license in the mail,” he says. “Then it just needs the signatures of you and your, uh, spouse, plus the officiator and witnesses.”

“Miss Goldstein and Miss Goldstein,” Percival says. “I would be honored if you were to act as my witnesses.”

“Oh my goodness, Tina, how exciting,” Queenie says, as though she didn’t just blackmail a friend into going against the wishes of the President of MACUSA. She clasps her hands together and smiles as though this were any other wedding, something to be excited about.

In the end, Percival does not wear his mother’s lace. No one does. Clearly enraged, Seraphina Picquery denies any sort of early release to be married for Credence. 

Guards bring him up to the emptied courtroom and he signs his name on the license with his hands still in chains.

Credence only speaks once, when the judge — who had been a friend of Percival’s mother ages ago — asks him, “Do you take this man, Percival Graves, to be your lawfully wedded spouse?”

“Yes,” Credence says, while looking at his feet.

They are declared to be married. Both the Goldstein sisters look as though they’re on the verge of tears.

“Will you unchain him now?” Percival asks the guards.

“Not without an order from the president.”

Percival scowls. “Fine.”

He smacks one of them in the ankle with his cane when he turns. “Credence, I think the matter of your freedom is a higher priority than a ring, but if you would like one — I’ll see what I can procure.”

The young man looks at him, that glassy look of fear in his eyes. He doesn’t speak.

The guards take him away again.

Percival storms off to make Seraphina’s life a living torment.

“My husband,” he tells her, “is being illegally held against my will for offenses which he has been pardoned of, by decree of your own dispensation.”

It only takes him about three hours to have her sign off on Credence’s release.

“So help me,” she says, “if he so much as sneezes wrong, I’m holding you responsible.”

“Here I thought you were afraid he would kill me,” Percival says.

She looks down at the ink drying on the order for formal dispensation. 

“I am,” she says. “But I’ll know what to do in that instance. I’ve already done it once.”

Percival goes downstairs, still wearing the fine clothes he selected for this, his wedding day, and collects his husband from a jail cell.

The chains come off and Credence rubs his wrists with his hands. The skin there has been worn red and raw.

He says nothing.

“Have you apparated before?” Percival asks.

The man looks at him and the faintest line appears between his brows.

“Disappeared from one place and appeared in another,” Percival says. “It can often make inexperienced wizards lose their lunch. I want to get home in a hurry, but I don't care to have you throw up on my doorstep.”

“I won't,” Credence says.

“Very well,” Percival says. “Take my hand.”

Credence’s hand is warm and rough. Percival realizes this is the first time they have ever touched. And yet, Percival has already stormed around calling this man his husband.

He takes them right to the steps of his building and is still holding the man’s hand as he goes through the door. There is a lift, and Percival tips the house elf operating it when he politely does not observe upon Credence’s appearance.

“The bath is down that hall,” Percival tells him as soon as they're inside. 

Credence looks around but he does not gawk. He glances at things in small ways and holds himself as still as he did when he was in chains.

“There are a few rooms for you to choose from,” he says. “But if a door does not open to you, I do not recommend forcing it.”

Credence says nothing to acknowledge this, but Percival continues.

“I don't have any servants, currently, so if you make a mess it's best not to leave it. I understand your magic is unstable, even destructive, but that matters little to me. If you break something in any of the unlocked rooms, it's probably replaceable.”

Percival hangs up his coat and jacket.

“I'll get you something to wear for now, but I can arrange for a tailor to visit the apartment or for you to be taken shopping,” Percival says.

When he looks at Credence again, the man stands in the parlor with his shoulders shaking.

“Credence?” he asks.

“Thank you,” Credence says. His voice sounds like a croaking toad.

“I don't understand why you're doing this,” he says. “I don't know what you want and I don't think I have anything to offer you. But thank you, Mr. Graves.”

He's crying, Percival realizes. It makes him uneasy. Doesn't strong emotion cause outbursts of magic for an Obscurial?

“Please,” he says, “we're both Mr. Graves now, so it will be easier if you call me Percival.”

“Yes, sir,” Credence says. “Thank you, Percival.”

Over the next few days, Percival sees little of Credence. He leaves a smoking jacket and pants and slippers in the guest bath with a note. He finds a note in the kitchen in the morning that breakfast is in the oven to keep warm.

Percival leaves a note to say thank you and to ask about having a tailor come.

That evening, Credence leaves him another note saying that he could find his way to the tailor himself if he had the cross streets.

Percival makes an appointment and leaves the details with a note thanking Credence for the breakfast the next day.

The house seems tidier and cleaner every time Percival looks up. Breakfast awaits him when he rises from bed in the morning and dinner has been served for him alone when he returns from a day spent telling America’s Aurors how great their failures are. 

He is no longer the director of anything, but he consults on many things. These days he is not trusted or popular any longer, but he is still knowledgeable. If anything, he knows much more now than he did before.

“Excuse me, sir,” Tina Goldstein says. “If you don't mind…”

“Yes, Miss Goldstein?” 

“I just wondered how Credence is doing, sir,” she says.

“Haven't seen him,” Percival tells her. “But you're free to call on him, if he'll see you.”

She looks stunned and as though she wants to say more.

“Well I'm leaving again for Europe soon,” she says. “But maybe my sister could check up on him.”

“It's all the same to me,” Percival tells her. “Let Credence decide if he wants visitors.”

Dinner a few days after that comes with a note asking, “May I please entertain a visit from Miss Tina and Queenie Goldstein?”

Percival writes, “Of course” on the same paper.

Credence writes shopping lists and he may even purchase some groceries for himself, though Percival has no idea where he gets the money. He never asks for any. He could be doing anything, really. But the wards are never disturbed within the penthouse and Credence has yet to break anything at all. He is invisible to Percival. At best, he might see a door shut when he comes home. Credence always closes doors completely silently. 

Of course, Percival sympathizes. He would despise living in a home with someone who looks like Gellert Grindelwald. It does not matter a lick, Percival knows, that he's not the man who tormented Credence. His face is the same.

Whatever answers Percival hoped he might get from Credence, he won't get them within the first month of their marriage of convenience.

At least, that is what Percival thinks.

The morning he leaves his room to find Credence waiting for him in the kitchen is, for Percival, like any other morning. He startles to see another person in his apartment, but of course Credence has been living here for weeks.

“Good morning, Credence,” he says.

The man has his long hair tied back with a ribbon. His face, clean shaven, has a strong jaw and an aquiline nose. He does not look like he smiles much or ever, but he has the full and rosy mouth of youth. Percival remembers the age given on their marriage documents.

“Good morning, Percival,” he says.

“To what do I owe the honor of your company this morning?” Percival asks. “Is something the matter?”

“No,” Credence says.

Percival looks at him, but his blank expression is inscrutable. There is not even a hint of the cold hatred that Percival found so familiar when he first saw the man. It is as though Credence’s body is empty and his mind gone somewhere else for the time.

“Well,” Percival says. “Thank you for breakfast.”

“You’re welcome,” Credence says. 

“I suppose the cooking and cleaning serve as something to do,” Percival says. “I worry you must be terribly bored.”

“No,” Credence says. 

Once Percival starts to eat his breakfast, Credence lifts his own fork.

“I’ve been reading,” he says.

“That’s good,” Percival says. “I have plenty of books around here.”

They fall into silence while they eat. 

“Shall I take your plate?” Percival asks, when he’s finished with his own food. Credence has cleaned his of nearly every toast crumb and spot of egg yolk.

“He wore your face,” Credence says. 

Percival stops cold.

“But you couldn’t be more different than he was.”

Percival takes their plates away and clears the table by force of magic.

“Thank you,” he says, for lack of anything else to say.

“You shouldn’t thank me,” Credence says.

He gets up from his chair and follows at Percival’s back in a way that makes Percival’s skin crawl. He has goosebumps under his morning robe.

“I ought to be thanking you,” Credence continues.

“You’ve made breakfast,” Percival says. “I think that’s enough.”

“You can’t marry again,” Credence says. “You can’t even have outside relations. I went and asked to see my pardon. You’ve given up so much. For what?”

Percival looks at the man, who doesn’t seem capable of as much expression in his face as he puts into his voice. There is, at least, some of that fury in his eyes again.

“Do you want to kill the man who hurt you?” Percival asks.

“Yes,” Credence says.

“Good,” Percival says. “I want to kill him too.”

Credence looks at him for a long moment and then nods.

“I thought I would let you settle in for a while before suggesting it,” Percival says. “If you changed your mind, I would let you live your life as you wished. You’re young. If I died on some wild quest for revenge, the pardon would stand. You could marry again as a widower, if you wanted.”

That faint line between the man’s brows is more obvious when he doesn’t have hair hanging over his eyes.

“I never intended to marry,” Percival admits, because if he can’t tell his husband this, then who can he tell?

“Not ever,” he adds. “Certainly not after what… what happened.”

After what was done to him, more like.

“Oh,” Credence says. “I think that’s a shame.”

Percival laughs, bitterly.

“You’re so handsome,” Credence says, “and kind.”

Percival laughs harder, and this seems to make Credence openly angry. The corners of his mouth turn down and he scowls at Percival.

“Don’t laugh, please,” Credence says. “I mean it.”

“That’s all well and good, Credence,” he says. “Thank you, I suppose.”

“I think you’re very handsome, Percival,” Credence says.

“Thank you,” Percival says, trying to be sincere this time. Still, the man has all the youthful beauty of a dark-haired Adonis at the side of Persephone’s throne.

“You said, when we married, that I could have a ring,” Credence says. “If I would like one.”

“Yes,” Percival says, recalling that off-handed comment.

“Would it be enchanted?” Credence asks. “To control me?”

Percival scowls. “No, absolutely not.”

“Then I might like a ring,” Credence says. “But I would prefer something else instead.”

“What is it?” Percival says. “Money is not really a question, if it’s jewelry you want. Or perhaps a wand, since you obviously have magic to use.”

“A kiss,” Credence says.

Percival looks at the young man.

“From my husband,” Credence adds.

Percival stays very still in his own kitchen while the dishes finish washing themselves in the sink behind him. Credence moves very slowly as he lifts his hands and touches Percival’s cheeks.

“You’re serious,” he says, as Credence looks at him. 

There is something there — not fury, but just as focused. It is just as frightening, if Percival is honest.

“Yes,” Credence says.

Credence’s face draws closer and closer, and Percival does not warn him against it. The young man tips his face so that his Roman nose will not collide with Percival’s. His lips touch Percival’s mouth quite sweetly. His touch is warm.

Percival kisses him back.

He doesn’t intend to, but he puts an arm about Credence’s waist and draws the man toward him. Percival opens his mouth and Credence’s tongue tastes him like a fine whisky. Credence goes slowly, with more care than Percival would have expected from the intensity of the man’s gaze. Percival runs his tongue over the man’s full lips and then his sharp teeth.

His cane nearly slips from his hand as he tries to draw their bodies closer together. He resents it more than ever, for he wants both hands free to take hold of the man kissing him.

It has been a very long time since anyone kissed Percival and longer still since he wanted to be kissed.

“Stop,” he says, finally, pulling away.

“You don’t have to do this, Credence,” he says. “Just because we’re married on paper, you know… You should know, it’s not a matter of this sort of thing.”

“Oh,” Credence says. His lips are now wet and red. He looks at Graves and then looks down.

Percival leans hard on his cane, holding it so hard his knuckles ache.

“But what if I want to kiss you?” Credence asks. “Even if we were not married, I think I would like to kiss you, Percival. But we are married.”

“We are,” Percival says. 

“I know you already indulge me greatly and I’m very grateful,” Credence says. “But I would like to kiss you again, if you’d permit me.”

The young man doesn’t meet his eyes when he says all this. He looks incredibly tense, really. That seems a shame to Percival. After all, Credence is free now. He shouldn’t act so afraid anymore.

“As your husband,” Percival says. “I would like to be kissed.”

Credence looks at him, then, and Percival thinks distantly that he will probably be late to work today.

**Author's Note:**

> I got requests on Tumblr for an arranged marriage fic... This is. Sort of that. Find me @ jeffgoldblumsmulletinthe90s.tumblr.com


End file.
